Gloria’s Green Goddess Diaries

They call me Gloria now, but back in Haight-Ashbury I was Sunflower — same difference. Gray dreads down to my ass, tits still heavy enough to make a young buck whimper, and a pussy that’s been legally smoked, licked, fingered and fucked on five continents. Age hasn’t dried me out; if anything the years just made me hungrier.

Last Tuesday I woke up spooning Mateo — 24, tattooed, smells like patchouli and cum. He’d spent the night face-first between my thighs, tongue working my clit like he was trying to win a blue ribbon at the county fair. I came so hard I squirted across his cheekbones and into his open mouth. He swallowed like it was holy water. Good boy.

After coffee I took him out to the back porch. Naked. Sun on my stretch marks, silver bush glistening. I bent over the railing, fat ass up, and told him to fuck Mommy’s old hippie cunt like he means it. He didn’t hesitate. Slid in raw — thick, veiny, youth-stupid-hard — and started pounding. Every thrust made my heavy tits swing and slap my ribs. I reached back, spread my cheeks wider so he could watch his cock disappear into that loose, greedy, grizzled hole. “Deeper, baby,” I growled. “Grandma wants to feel it in her goddamn soul.”

He obliged. Gave me those long, punishing strokes that make my cervix sing. I rubbed my swollen clit in furious circles while he railed me. When I felt him start to swell I clamped down — Kegels honed by decades of tantric workshops — and milked him dry. He came roaring, flooding me so full that thick white ropes ran down my inner thighs and dripped onto the cedar planks. I scooped some up with two fingers, turned around, and sucked them clean while staring into his wrecked eyes. “That’s a good pup,” I purred. “Now go make me another cup of tea.”

Later that afternoon Rainbow and Sage dropped by — my two favorite polyam lesbian stoner witches, both mid-30s, both pierced everywhere that matters. We passed a fat joint on the living-room floor and within ten minutes clothes were gone and limbs were tangled.

I sat back against the couch, legs spread wide, while Rainbow buried her face in my sopping muff. Sage straddled my thigh and ground her slick little pussy against me, clit kissing my skin with every roll of her hips. I reached up and twisted her dark nipples until she hissed. Rainbow’s tongue was relentless — flat laps over my clit, then spearing inside, then back to sucking. I grabbed a fistful of her purple hair and fucked her mouth with my cunt, smearing my juices across her chin and cheeks.

When I came it was loud and messy — back arching, thighs quaking, a hot gush soaking Rainbow’s face and the rug. Sage came right after, grinding so hard she left a wet smear on my leg. We collapsed in a heap of sweat, smoke, and pussy juice, laughing like teenagers.

That’s when Mateo walked back in with the tea tray.

Poor sweet boy froze, cock already twitching back to life inside his boxers. I crooked a finger. “Bring that tray over here, darling… and lose the shorts. Mama Gloria’s still got room for dessert.”

They say age is just a number. Bullshit. Age is a flavor. It’s the slow burn of decades of orgasms layered into every crease, every silver hair, every stretch mark. It’s knowing exactly how hard I like my clit sucked, how deep I want a cock, how many fingers I can take in my ass while another mouth is on my pussy.

I’m 68. I’m soaked right now just typing this. My fingers smell like cunt and cannabis. And I’m nowhere near done.

Come find me in the garden if you’re brave enough. I’ll be the naked grandma with her legs open under the lemon tree, waiting for the next tongue, cock, or pretty pussy that wants to worship at the altar of experience.

Blesséd be, motherfuckers.

— Gloria